More Stuff I Can't Do Anything With (3 Poems)

Dear Blog,

Here's some stuff that would never make the review due to violence or anti-religion or language or sex. They don't let you put anything good in. It's hard because I refuse to censor myself but then there's no public outlet for what I'm doing. I just have to show it to one or two people on a blog. This is one reason why I feel I need to leave. Writing should be read and something around half, or a little more, of my writing is "not appropriate" for this college. Lame. This was written Friday.

Messiah Complex 2000

King of all vain rejected peoples down
In the gutter with his tongue hanging out
WIth all the gold from his mouth leaking
To the street where he did his speaking

Bernard rushes to him with open arms
And adds another sharp instrument of harm
Sticking in the flesh like a brazen idol
Our eyes are glued to this one hole

Finally the man's words are spent
The silence is the guilt that is rent
Into us, twisting and pain is understanding
Everyone who sees crowds down to the landing

I try to take his hand and reassure him
But Bernard is hoping to ensure them
That this was not the man of a promised land
So he quickly bats away my helping hand

Bernard ascends the pulpit made of records
He combs back his pompadour and smiles
At all the chaos and decadence around him
And says, "The dawn of our deliverance is come."

This rings hollow in my red and weathered ears
But the people rise up with brazen cheers
They sit him up on the old throne, with new praise
Start painting a portrait where his face catches sun rays

Bernard discusses plans to topple capitalism
He says that revolution and change are at hand
I've heard this one before from better spokesmen
He says, "I am the messiah, come to drive out false prophets."

He picks out some traitors, parades their insolence
Reads some choice words from blank documents
Strong men with new convictions bind all three
Bernard stabs each one and throws them to the sea

Bernard holds some banquet to make a keynote
We all attend with our best ironic fashions on
Combat boots, torn jackets, and prom dresses
Bernard stands and says, "All is happening as it is written."

Just then a shot rings out and Bernard expires
The smoke trailing from his head is a ring of fire
The smell of gun smoke and the flash of knives
All of us messiahs start harvesting some lives

This was written a week or two ago when I was depressed. There's a certain state of mind that triggers a different kind of writing in me. It's usually not even this good. I didn't realize that this was passable until I went back and read it again. It's a little emo at times, deal with it.

Depression 2

The pain in my bones is so unbearable
That crushing feeling in my ugly sternum
The girls all see what they did to me
And they walk past with closed eyes

I never got shit from praying out loud
Nothing that anyone can prove to me
So I won't wail to the heavens now
Just because I broke a few bones

This is what bike riding gets me
The middle of a street and bleeding
I can't keep going and hit the tape
But I can't reverse myself at this point

Life can feel like piercing, ugly irony
bleeding heart, notebook depression
Goofy, unabashed smiling at the outdoors
All in the same rib-crushing day

Here's one more that I decided to tack on. I wrote it a few weeks ago in Sociology. I'm not sure that it's that inappropriate. It does have alcohol!

Alone in Sunny Santa Cruz

Sitting on the couch with an empty box of wine
Watching the TV cast it's color on my stomach
Listening to infomercials, waiting for a sign
It makes me jealous that the announcers can fake smiling

At the grocery store on Tuesday night I walk
Down the mostly empty aisles of name-brand cereals
I listen to the other clerks and baggers talk
About boyfriends and sex tips and oh God I'm bleeding

Blanking at the high rise party even though I'm drunk
Stumbling in silence with my dress shirt unbuttoned
Looking like a grubby, shameful orphan with his eyes sunk
Sobbing in the kitchen, breaking plates to break the silence

A woman dressed in white and green slaps me across the face
Looking at me like a shallow puddle she mistakenly stepped in
Laid bare near the cookware with little to no grace
I decide to just pass out and figure it out in the morning


Yours,
B Morgz